People, puzzles, and partners
by writergirl712
Summary: "And once my studies are done or I decide to branch off into my own life, then what?" Joan interrupted, leaning forward. "Once you demystify or solve me or whatever, then what? People aren't puzzles or projects, Sherlock, they're people. You're supposed to accept them as they are, entirely."


**A/N: **I was pretty upset with the end of the second season, so here's something that I would love to be canon.

* * *

It took a week for Joan to move out of the brownstone and into her own apartment, a one-bedroom little thing that was cozy but unadorned. As Sherlock stood in the center of his partner's former room, staring at a wall blankly, he remembered that she had never bothered decorating her room. It had always been empty, but for her bed, bedside table, and the chair that Sherlock himself had a habit of sitting in, waiting for her to wake so he could energetically share the results of a hard night's work of contemplation.

The room was bare now, and looking around, Sherlock noticed the tiny things that pointed to its former occupant: the small scratches of her double bed on the hardwood floor, the fading scent of vanilla wistfully hanging in the air, the thin layer of dust interrupted only by the alarm clock that routinely woke her up before they began their partnership and Sherlock took on the task.

Looking around, Sherlock was reminded of the affect that Joan had had on him. With her, the continuous buzzing in his head – the overwhelming barrage of thoughts, sensations, and observations – faded to the background, clearing his mind for deductions that could solve cases. Now her room was as clear as his mind had been.

* * *

It was another week before they saw each other again. Sherlock had not been answering Joan's texts or phone calls, and after repeated tries, Joan simply appeared at the brownstone unannounced. When Sherlock answered the doorbell and saw her standing there, looking at him defiantly and slightly reproachfully, he almost shut the door – but Joan wedged one high-heeled boot between the door and the frame, and glared at him.

"Sherlock. Let me in."

He gave up, and turned away to let Joan enter and shut the door behind them. She looked just as she always did: immaculately dressed, firm, confident, and faintly smelling of vanilla (she didn't use perfume during investigations, when the scent could give her away). Her hands still smelled like the beeswax lotion she always used, but tiny flecks of olive-green paint showed that she'd been painting the walls of her new apartment. Olive-green, like the color of her room (former room) in the brownstone.

Sherlock sat on the living room sofa, crossed his legs, and took up one of the many books strewn on the ground.

"Make it quick, Watson; I'm in the middle of some research."

Joan glanced around the room, which was considerably messier than usual (it was a Monday, which meant that Ms. Hudson had yet to come and straighten up the house). She doubted whether Sherlock was too busy with his research; judging from the rooms, it looked like he had started various activities then discarded them. The screen of locks was half-full, with the rest of the locks lying in a pile on the floor; the violin was sitting on one of the chairs, case missing; and various books were carelessly spread on the ground, left open and unread.

"Making me leave already?" Joan asked lightly. She dropped her purse onto one of the chairs and sank into it, trying to ignore the feeling of homesickness. "I think I remember you asking me to stay twice."

"And I seem to remember that you refused the second time," Sherlock retorted, refusing to look up from his book, which he wasn't reading (Joan noticed his eyes weren't moving across the page). "Something about finding your own life?"

"I meant every word of what I said," Joan said quietly, still looking at him. Sherlock snapped his book shut and put it down on his lap. He finally met her gaze.

"But there was more, wasn't there?" he asked accusingly. Joan refused to look away. She wouldn't apologize – not for this. She crossed her legs, unconsciously mimicking Sherlock's position.

"Do you remember when we worked with Moriarty to find her kidnapped daughter?"

"Of course."

"She told me something, when we were alone," Joan remarked. "She said that you and she were alike – that you're both intrigued by puzzles, by what you can't understand. But once you understand it, you move on." Sherlock blinked. "She said she's the only one you can talk to, to relate to."

Sherlock snorted.

"She said that to get to you," he said dismissively.

"Probably," Joan replied, shrugging. "But you know what? She was right. With what's happened in the past few weeks, I've realized that we don't really know each other, not really."

That made Sherlock raise his eyebrows.

"I think it's safe to say that you know more about me than I am comfortable sharing."

It was Joan's turn to raise her eyebrows skeptically.

"Do I? I don't think meeting your brother and ex-girlfriend really count." Sherlock's foot twitched. "Besides, it's a two-way street. Have you ever bothered to get to know me? When have you ever cared about me as a person?"

"I tutored you!" Sherlock exploded, uncrossing his legs to sit up. His book slid to the ground with a thud. "I-"

"And once my studies are done or I decide to branch off into my own life, then what?" Joan interrupted, leaning forward. "Once you demystify me or solve me or whatever, then what? People aren't puzzles or projects, Sherlock, they're _people_. You're supposed to accept them as they are, entirely."

"So you left before I could leave you," Sherlock accused, to which Joan gave an exasperated sigh.

"Getting my own apartment doesn't mean leaving you or our work," she replied, sitting back again. "I know you only believe in all-in or all-out situations, but-"

"They're one and the same," Sherlock cut in. "This is our home, our _sanctum sanctorum_, for living and working. _This_ is where it all happens, Watson." He waved his hand as if to encapsulate the entire house. "Leaving the brownstone is leaving what we do – who we are."

Joan looked at him, a hint of sadness in her gaze.

"Oh, Sherlock. It isn't. Moving out – that's just a regular part of who we are. I left the brownstone, but I wouldn't leave you."

Sherlock's face looked pained.

"Who's speaking, the duty-bound sober companion?"

Joan smiled sadly.

"The partner. And – what I believe we can still be – _friend_." Sherlock stared at her, swallowing hard, and Joan leaned forward again. "Partners are important to each other for work, but friends stick together through thick and thin," Joan told him softly. "Friends accept each other for who they are – _all _of it.

"We're more than partners, Sherlock. We're friends."


End file.
